


Jeeves and the Romantic Novelist or The Perils and Perks of Eavesdropping.

by pintpotjudas



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: 1920s-30s attitudes towards homosexuality, Bertie as a rower headcanon, Bertie up a tree, Competent(ish) Bertie, Idiots in Love, Jealousy, Jeeves has hidden depths, M/M, Misunderstandings, Romance, potting sheds, references to the Sherlock Holmes novels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-18
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-29 17:38:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1008188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pintpotjudas/pseuds/pintpotjudas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'“Good evening, Mr Wallace.” Came Jeeves’ cordial and very correct reply. I rather expected that to be the end of it, and I was hoping it too. I didn’t fancy appearing from a tree with Wallace hanging about. It engenders too many questions. “What were you doing up that tree?” being one of them.'</p><p> For once it is Bertie who is in the know when it comes to a delicate tidbit of personal information. Now he perfectly understands the phrase 'ignorance is bliss'...</p><p>Finally Updated!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Up a Tree

A clever individual once wrote something along the lines of ‘eavesdroppers never hear anything they want to hear and it’s their own bally fault for eavesdropping anyway’. Well, I imagine they wrote it rather better than that, certainly more succinctly, but I’m dashed if I can remember the exact phrase.

 

Anyway, the reason I’m grasping for sayings is that this particular one more or less sums up the position I found myself in whilst sitting in a tree at my Aunt Dahlia’s home, Brinkley Court. The exact reasons for my being up the tree do not really need exploring, as they have very little bearing on the tale I am trying to relate. Suffice to say my reasons were very valid and were a great deal to do with a teapot, an irate Stilton Cheesewright and a German Shepherd who had taken an instant dislike to me and formed an unlikely alliance with the aforementioned Cheesewright.

 

The tree had become a rather decent hiding spot for me since the end of the dinner hour. I felt rather like King Charles in the legend, although I’m given to understand he was stowed away in an oak. My particular spot was a rather sturdy plain tree, one I’d had the pleasure of climbing many a time during my childhood. I had the presence of mind to snag a book before shimmying up the tree, and had read until the evening light faded. Fortunately it was high summer, so there was rather a lot of light to fade, and it wasn’t entirely unpleasant being up there in the canopy.

 

Eventually Cheesewright had given up his search for me in the garden with a petulant sigh. I was fairly confident the dog would be stowed away for the evening, not left to wander the grounds like some beast out of the Sherlock Holmes novel I’d been reading. A glance at my watch showed that it was gone eleven and my bed, and perhaps a small nightcap, were calling. So I was all for jumping the eight or so feet towards the ground like the sprightly eleven year old I’d once been.

 

Except just as I was about to take the plunge, I heard footsteps approaching. Fearing that Cheesewright was back, having somehow discovered my roost, I endeavoured to be as quiet as possible, especially if he’d also brought the blasted dog with him.

 

I soon discovered that it wasn’t, in fact, the dreaded Stilton, but my own manservant, Jeeves, who was loitering beneath the plain tree. I would recognise Jeeves anywhere, even if I could only glimpse the top of his noble head, obscured as it was by plain leaves.

 

He was out enjoying the night air and a pre bed gasper, as is the right of any man. I rather disliked intruding on his personal time, but I also didn’t feel quite right about him being oblivious to my presence.

 

I was just about to extend a cheery greeting to Jeeves when another set of footsteps were heard to approach, stage left. Once again fearing Stilton I did not make myself known. And this is the point in the story where the cove talking about eavesdroppers and the overhearing things they wished they’d rather not wheeze is proved correct.

 

“Good evening, Jeeves.”

 

I instantly recognised the voice as belonging to Terrance Wallace, an acquaintance of mine and a fellow author, who was staying with my aunt as a sort of ‘thank you’ for his penning a series of insipid love stories for _M’Lady’s Boudoir_.

You know the type of thing, dreadful stuff set in the Victorian period; it’s only when she’s dying of consumption that he realises he adores her so she is miraculously cured and her complexion looks even more belting with those lingering red cheeks. Utter dross, but it drives the readers of _Boudoir_ crazy. Which is rather alarming, when one thinks of it.

 

“Good evening, Mr Wallace.” Came Jeeves’ cordial and very correct reply. I rather expected that to be the end of it, and I was hoping it too. I didn’t fancy appearing from a tree with Wallace hanging about. It engenders too many questions. “What were you doing up that tree?” being one of them.

 

I heard the sound of a cigarette being lit and all was quiet for a moment. Again, I hoped Wallace might toddle off to consider the evening lark or some such. But he didn’t.

 

“I was rather pleased to see that Bertie and yourself were staying here this weekend.” Wallace said, a certain _thingness_ to his voice. Sort of on the low side for normal conversation.

 

Jeeves didn’t reply, but through the canopy of leaves I saw him turn his dark head towards Terrance’s blonde one.

 

“I freely admit, Jeeves, that I have been looking for an opportunity to see you again.”

 

Well, now, this was getting dashed odd. My first thought was that Wallace was another in a long line of potential valet nappers, but that didn’t explain the frankly rather... intimate way he was speaking to Jeeves. Almost as if they were friends or-

 

“I too have had a certain desire to see you again, sir.”

 

My stomach, which had been slightly uneasy from the outset suddenly plummeted to ankle level. I had never heard Jeeves use that voice before, a deep, sensual rumble which made the hair on the back of my neck prickle. It was the kind of voice someone would deliberately use to arouse another.

 

I was extremely aware that I should not be hearing this conversation for at least two reasons. The first being that it was clearly a private conversation and the other being that I feared what I would hear might upset me. But I was up the tree and short of putting my fingers in my ears and humming loudly, there wasn’t much I could do.

 

“Oh, yes?” Wallace replied, in what I imagine he thought was a flirtatious manner. “It has been rather a while since Easter weekend, hasn’t it?”

 

Easter had been the last time I had stayed at Brinkley and Wallace had also been visiting, my brain helpfully supplied.

 

Jeeves took a step closer to Wallace and I had a very strong urge to shut my eyes or turn away, yet found I could do neither.

 

“Sir, I am afraid we don’t have very much time. Mr Wooster will soon need attending to.” Jeeves’ voice was low and urgent and I saw him take Wallace’s arm. He began to steer Wallace away from the house.

 

“Say no more, Jeeves, I assume that potting shed is still a viable option...” Wallace’s quiet voice trailed off into the night and I was left very much alone.

 

I have no real memory how long I sat in that tree or how I got back to my room. I know I must have made the trip at some point because I was suddenly lying in the Blue Room’s four poster, having bunged myself into my heliotrope pyjamas.

 

My mind was whirring with this new information. I could be in no doubt to what the conversation I had overheard was alluding. For heaven’s sake, I’d had similar conversations myself. Every gentleman of mine, and apparently Jeeves’ and Wallace’s, persuasion had arranged a clandestine meeting through half sentences, lingering glances and subtle, hinting body language.

I stared at the ceiling mouldings supposedly attributed to Grinling Gibbons with utterly unseeing eyes. I was not disgusted that Jeeves was apparently an invert, I was not a hypocrite. And of course, he could choose to share his bed... or borrow a potting shed, as the case may be, with anyone he wished.

The door of my bedchamber opened and I instinctively closed my eyes, feigning sleep. Jeeves lingered for a moment, perhaps ascertaining if I were truly in the land of nod, before closing the door with a gentle click.

Lying in the darkness I realised that I didn’t know the first thing about my valet. Perhaps that was why I felt so upset.

***

The next morning I awoke bright and early. I was awake even before Jeeves brought my morning tea, a rather unheard of event. However, I did not feel refreshed, having spent an uneasy night divided between fitful sleeps and fruitless bouts of thinking.

By the time Jeeves did arrive with my tea I was near to climbing the walls, sick of the contents of my own head.

“Good morning, sir.” He said, placing my tea on the bedside table and proceeding to open the curtains. The sun peeped cheerily into the room as I watched Jeeves cross back to my bedside.

I don’t know what I expected; it wasn’t as if he would look any different. And indeed he didn’t: the same crisp uniform, the strong jaw, dark brows and the contrasting light eyes, slick black hair and lightly tanned complexion. His authoritative stance, broad shoulders and innate grace were all present and correct.

If I hadn’t overheard that conversation I would have no clue that Jeeves had spent a portion of the previous evening in a shed with an author of tedious romantic fiction.

It was only when Jeeves raised his eyebrows questioningly that I realised I had yet to greet him and had merely stared at him in the selfsame scientific, assessing manner as Gussie Fink Nottle is given to stare at his newts.

“My apologies, Jeeves, good morning to you.” I was astounded by how normal my voice sounded.

“Are you feeling well, sir?” Jeeves asked, handing me my cup and saucer.

“Oh yes, Jeeves, topping.”

He didn’t look as if he believed me, but didn’t press any the issue further.

“It looks to be a rather clement day, sir. The weather will be perfect for your tennis match against Mr Wallace this afternoon.”

 

The tea, which had been slipping down the Wooster throat rather pleasantly up until the casual mention of Wallace, suddenly got stuck in the gullet and decided to head back the way it came. I coughed, I spluttered, the eyes watered. Jeeves, an eminently sensible individual, removed the cup from my grasp and patted me sharply on the back.

 

After a few more undignified, wettish coughs I was more or less back to normal, and Jeeves saw fit to return my tea.

 

“ Must have gotten a bit lost on the way down, what?” I hashed, hoping that his powerful, fish fed brain didn’t make a connection between his mentioning Wallace and my tea induced Berserker impersonation.

 

He eyed me sceptically for a moment, but being blessed with aunts of such high calibre I had become an expert in the ‘wide eyed innocent look’. A slight blankness in the expression, the overall impression of complete empty headedness. It had fooled him enough times before.

 

For some reason his casual nod of acceptance rankled me. It got under my skin and I had the urge to shout ‘I know something you don’t know!’ at him, in the manner of a schoolboy. Fortunately, I didn’t. I knew that a childish exclamation would be both highly dangerous and potentially damaging to the Jeeves/Wooster relationship. I didn’t wish to hurt Jeeves by belittling his _affaire de coeur_.

 

Even if it was apparently partaken of in a potting shed.

 

I shook my head and drank the rest of my tea and resolved to think of it no more.

 

***

I decided the best way to go about this was to distract my brain with a good bit of physical exercise. Having donned the required clothing I wandered down to the lake, sought my favoured one man boat and allowed the old muscle memory to take over. The sunlight dappled the water as the oars sliced through, smooth as anything. I told myself I’d just focus on improving my technique and perhaps think over a few ideas for the next _oeuvre_.

 

Of course, you can tell your brain one thing and it goes and does the complete bally opposite. All throughout the morning I found myself dwelling on the subject of Jeeves and Wallace. How long had they been indulging in their affair? Had they kept in contact, writing secret letters and so on? Were they in love?

 

That thought nearly knocked me sideways, which was rather dangerous, as I was out in the middle of a lake. The thought wasn’t distressing because I thought it impossible for two coves to love one another, although I myself had never experienced such a relationship. Oh, I’d had some jolly times in my youth but I’d never experienced anything of any significance.

 

But supposing Jeeves and this Wallace were more than simply casual lovers, well, what then? Supposing they were the next Alexander the Great and Hephaestion, all that one soul in two bodies business?

 

Frankly my head was starting to hurt by the time I rowed back to the shore, after realising that it was almost midday. 

 

***

 I sat down to lunch in a distinctly unsunny mood. The weather, however, was glorious, so we were having a light luncheon of sandwiches out on the lawns overlooking the tennis courts. God was in his heaven but all did not feel right with the world. Rather than enjoying the warm breezes and delightful sunshine I felt rather queasy. My disposish was in no way lightened when a certain Terrance Wallace seated himself across from my spot at the table.

 

“Afternoon, Bertie. Looking forward to our little game? Can’t wait to win five quid off you, I must say.” he oozed, smiling pleasantly.

 

I’d all but forgotten our tennis match. I remembered the easy, friendly camaraderie we had shared when we settled on the light-hearted wager the day before. What a difference a day makes, I mused.

 

“Quite.” I replied, slightly abstractedly.

 

Wallace nodded, but did not pursue further conversation with me, for which I was grateful. My thoughts were still swimming about like a school of fish being bullied by a persistent shark; rather all over the place and none too happy about it.

 

I found myself considering what Jeeves saw in Wallace. I myself had never been attracted to the man, as I tend to prefer dark haired chaps over fair types like Wallace. I supposed he wasn’t too bad on the whole: light, wavy hair, tall yet rather gangly, with very pale blue eyes and a complexion given to freckling.

 

His company was enjoyable enough, although he did tend to go on a bit about his new novels like he imagined himself to be the next Miss Austen. All in all he was pleasant and talkative, with no outlandish opinions and impeccable manners.

 

Jeeves had chosen rather well, I supposed. My stomach lurched rather alarmingly.

 

“Bertie, will you stop mauling that poor sandwich to death and eat the blasted thing?”

 

I glanced up to discover my Aunt Dahlia, my cousin Angela, and her fiancé, one Tuppy Glossop looking at me rather askance. Well, Aunt Dahlia and Angela were looking at me; Tuppy was looking rather mournfully at the tattered remains of my smoked ham sandwich.

 

“Terribly sorry to flagellate the repast, dearest relation.” I replied. I picked up a few morsels of the sandwich and ate them, although the action of chewing increased the dull pains in my head.

 

Glancing towards the house I noticed Jeeves approaching the table with a jug of fresh lemonade. He looked his usual pristine self, despite the heat, which was rather reassuring. There was no moony eyed look of love on his face, not a hint that he might be thinking of dream rabbits or similar twaddle. Then I made the mistake of looking at Wallace.

 

I had no doubt that no one else at the table would have noticed anything. My Aunt Dahlia and Angela were engaged in discussing the relative merits of stephanotis versus Lily of the Valley in bouquets, Tuppy was carving another gargantuan piece of pork pie and my Uncle Tom had drifted off to sleep with the Financial Times protecting his face from the sun.

 

Which was probably why Wallace risked a quick leer at Jeeves. Well, it wasn’t as much a leer as a sort of... friendly smile.  But it was the implication behind that smile that made it rather inappropriate, considering what I had overheard the night before.

 

“Thank you, Jeeves.” he said, still grinning a tad too broadly for a casual exchange with a servant. Something in my chest seemed to tighten and my breadbox gave another dissatisfied gurgle.

 

Jeeves, for his part, didn’t even raise an eyebrow at Wallace’s insouciance. He merely nodded, before turning towards me. Then he frowned.

 

“Sir, are you quite alright?” he asked.

 

 My head was beginning to pound at the temples, the dazzling sunlight only causing sharp spikes of pain behind my eyes. I can’t imagine what affect that was having on my expression, but considering his, it wasn’t altogether aesthetically pleasing.

 

“I’m afraid I’m not feeling quite the thing, Jeeves.” I answered, honestly.

 

“Perhaps you’ve caught the sun, Bertie?” Angela offered, distracted from bouquets for a moment, “You were out rowing for quite a while.”

 

Jeeves eyed me for a few more seconds, before turning and oiling off in the direction of the house, probably to fetch the dessert. I didn’t fancy sticking around to watch Tuppy demolish a trifle.

 

“Perhaps.” I agreed. “I think I might go and have a nap, see if I can sleep it off, what? Sorry about the tennis wager, Terry.”

 

“We’ll reschedule, Bertie, don’t worry.I hope you feel better.” He smiled at me, genuine concern in his expression. “Besides, I can always give Tuppy a run for his money this afternoon.”

 

Tuppy looked up from his over laden plate only to give us a quizzical glance before turning back to his luncheon, sporting wagers forgotten for the sake of stuffing himself. Again, my insides gave a disagreeable shudder.

 

“But I doubt it would be much of a match.” Wallace confided, with a wide grin. He really was quite a good looking chap, all things considered.

 

I smiled, rather weakly, before ankling off to the cool sanctuary of the house.

 

***

About ten minutes later my bedroom door quietly opened. I had drawn the curtains but still found even the dull light in the room rather oppressive, so I had closed my eyes and rested my forearm over them.

 

As I only heard the slight rustle of impeccably starched shirt sleeves and perceived only the graceful glide of a paragon I correctly interpreted that it was Jeeves who had let himself in.

 

“Sir?  How are you fairing? ”

 

“It’s just a headache, Jeeves. Perhaps a spot of sunstroke, nothing serious.”

 

“On the contrary, sir, sunstroke can be quite serious.” He declared, with that same half sympathetic, half chiding tone my nanny used to use when I’d fallen over and scraped my knees.

 

I heard him set a few items down on the bedside table and stifled a sigh. Despite my best efforts my brain had yet to quiet itself on the Jeeves/ Wallace revelations, and I craved more time on my own to work out what to do. If there was anything I could do. Or if there was anything I should do.

 

“Jeeves, I just wish to sleep, if you would kindly-”

 

The next thing I knew he was gently removing my arm from my eye region and replacing it with a cool ,damp cloth. It felt rather like pressing my face into a soothing rain cloud and I very nearly purred as the pounding in my head abated somewhat.

 

As it was I couldn’t help making a relieved noise and murmuring “Jeeves, that feels absolutely heavenly.”

 

“I endeavour to give satisfaction, sir.” he replied. “A greater benefit might be felt if you consented to drinking some water.”

 

I cracked open an eye. Jeeves was leaning over me, holding a beaker of ice water looking, it had to be said, rather concerned. Oddly, he also looked a bit flushed, as if he too were suffering from the ill effects of the weather.

His worry was a rather pleasant balm to the aching soul. Still, if I were to suddenly snuff it due to accidentally frying my brain then he would be out of a job, wouldn’t he? Although not for long, of course. Any number of my pals would be willing to ditch their respective valets to have Jeeves attending to them.

 

Trying not to show rather unreasonable resentment towards the man for simply doing his job, I gingerly hoiked myself up into a seated position. Once again my stomach gurgled and the small, unruly band of elephants in my  head battered about, but I gamely reached for the proffered glass of water.

 

It is a little known fact that whilst I was at school I was something of a natural at both short and long distance running. It came in handy during cross country championships as well as scarpering from the faculty room with pilfered biscuits. My running abilities, whilst not necessarily as needed in my adult years, had fortunately remained.

 

Fortunate, for as soon as the first droplets of water hit my protesting stomach the effect was something like dropping a lit match into a very dry pile of hay. Although it was less of a conflagration and more like the feeling that my guts were suddenly going to come hurtling past my tonsils at a very great speed.

 

I made it to the bathroom in time, and wretched for some minutes over the toilet bowl, my stomach heaving and my eyes watering. I rested my forehead against the cool porcelain once I felt sufficiently emptied. I became aware of Jeeves hovering at my side, crouching next to me.

 

“Sorry about this, my good man. I know you’ve seen me in similar states but I’ve generally had a dashed good time beforehand.” I joked, rather feebly.

 

“There is nothing to apologise for, sir.”  I saw that he had brought my dressing gown with him and had never felt more grateful as I did when he slipped it about my shaking shoulders. Vomiting does rather bizarre things to the old corpus and it always had a tendency to leave me with a case of the shivers.  He eased me back so I was leant against the side of the bath, instead of clutching the loo with my head lolling against the bowl. It was rather a more comfortable way to sit.

 

“In fact, I rather suspected that the water would have that affect on you, sir. I apologise for any discomfort it has given you.” Jeeves did look rather contrite, and he had yet to move from where he was kneeling.

 

“It’s probably done me more good than harm, Jeeves. In fact, I do feel rather better.” The unpleasant pulsations in my head had eased up and my stomach felt more settled.

 

“Very good, sir.”

 

The next ten minutes were spent ascertaining that I no longer had anything in my stomach, thus ensuring the safety of my aunt’s bed linen, brushing my teeth and getting into my pyjamas.

 

Pulling the blankets over my head, suddenly feeling utterly exhausted I muttered a few words of gratitude towards the general direction of Jeeves, who was picking up and folding the clothes I had shed. Before he could reply the cool, dark shroud of sleep came upon me.


	2. Down the (particular dream) rabbit hole

When I awoke it was to a dark room, a dry mouth and an achingly empty stomach. A quick glance at the clock informed me it was a quarter to one in the morning. And odd time to wake up, certainly, but I felt considerably better. My head no longer felt like a cricket ball after twelve brutal innings, at least.

 

I flicked on the bedside lamp, wincing slightly at the sudden bright light. Discovering a glass of water on the side table, presumably left by Jeeves, I drank deeply and began to feel much more myself. Despite the late hour I decided to wander down to the kitchen to see if I could rustle up a morsel or two to eat.

 

After my light meal (a small slice of Anatole’s pork pie and some cheese) I wandered outside, enjoying the cool air, light breeze and the solitude. Settling myself on a favourite stone bench, I lit a gasper and sipped the mug of lemonade I’d brought with me. The wind rustled through the trees, stirring up the scents of honeysuckle blooms and warm, dry earth. I was rather enjoying myself, up unto the point I heard two voices involved in a whispered argument.

 

I remembered, with a jolt, the events of the previous evening. My brief illness seemed to have given me temporary amnesia, as my thoughts had yet to stray towards Jeeves and his apparent paramour since waking. However, they suddenly came rushing at me like water from a tap as I was assailed by their hushed voices.

 

The reason I favoured the bench I was sitting on was due to the privacy it afforded one, shrouded as it was by unruly hedges. Once upon a time Uncle Tom had taken a brief and rather disastrous interest in the art of topiary. After having accidentally trimmed the hat of one of his guests (and very nearly going on to trim her head clean off, fortunately she’d had the sense of mind to scream before he caught her in the jugular) he’d given up. The bushes had been left untended by the elderly gardener and a pleasantish little wilderness had sprung up in this part of the garden, where one could go and sit and not be seen.

 

Of course, this had its downside and I was again in the unenviable position of hearing a conversation I really did not wish to be hearing.

 

“Would it really be so awful?” Wallace asked, his tone almost pleading.

 

“Mr Wallace, I don’t think-”

 

“I have asked you a dozen times to call me Terry.”

 

“It would be improper, sir.”

 

“Improper?” Wallace burst out, “Improper, honestly? After everything we’ve-”

 

“I beg you, sir, you must keep your voice down.” Jeeves’ timbre was so very even in comparison to Wallace’s impassioned ones.

 

“You’re right.” A bitter little laugh from Wallace, “You’re always right.” A more resigned tone.

 

There was silence for a few moments, then Wallace gave a sigh.

 

“I don’t wish to spoil our time together, but the fact that you won’t even consider it, well, it’s a little insulting.”

 

“I work for Mr Wooster. I shan’t leave him.”

 

I must admit my heart gave a tender little leap at those words, only to have it thrust down to the vicinity of my ankles at Wallce’s next exclamation.

 

“I understand you won’t leave him, but I have no idea as to why.  I know he’s rich and rather malleable, but it’s not as if he stimulates you intellectually, is it?”

 

Malleable? Is that how Jeeves saw me? As an easy to manipulate money pot with poor (to his mind) fashion sense?

 

“I have told you before, I shall not discuss Mr Wooster with you.” Jeeves’ voice was as cold as I’d ever heard it. Twice as chilly as the ‘I’ve-found-another-alpine-hat-in-your-wardrobe-explain-yourself-sir’ voice.

 

“That’s just you all over, isn’t it, Reg? You can shag me but you won’t talk to me.” Now Wallace just sounded sad. Not bitter or imploring, just sad.

 

“I hadn’t realised you wished our relationship to go beyond the physical, sir.”

 

“And if I did?” I heard Wallace take a step forward, the slight rustle of fabric. He had probably taken Jeeves’ hand. “Would you... would you consider it then? Coming with me?”

 

I held my breath, waiting for Jeeves to reply. I was sitting still but I felt horribly dizzy, as if I were teetering on a cliff edge. Jeeves remained silent.

 

“We could be so much more; we could have a life together.” Wallace sounded wistful now, the beseeching note in his voice was back.

 

Jeeves still did not reply.

 

“Think of it. I own a house in France, you told me before you adore France. We could live there, no one would care.”

 

I shivered, despite the warmth of the night. I imagined Jeeves handing me his letter of resignation, of perhaps getting the chance of seeing him once a year if I kept up correspondence with Wallace, merely for the sake of keeping a link, any link, to Jeeves. I imagined Jeeves being happy, truly happy, not just “Quite content, sir.” with someone else. Knowing that I would never allow myself to stand in the way of that, to be the selfish ogre keeping Jeeves from a charmed life.

 

“I- I need time to consider this.”

 

I had never, in all my life, heard Jeeves stutter. Not even when faced with the prospect of ties with little horseshoes on them. A kind of numb panic overtook me, much like it had when I was up the tree, discovering that my valet was inverted and had a lover of my acquaintance. Only now it was far worse, much more intense.

 

“Take as long as you need, I’ll wait.” Wallace breathed, sounding like a child who has spotted the presents under the tree on Christmas morning.

 

There was silence for a moment, and for the first time my brain threw up a mental image of the pair of them together, entwined in an embrace. Wallace’s arms about Jeeves’ broad shoulders, Jeeves’ strong hands on Wallace’s hips, their lips tangling passionately.

 

Revulsion spread through me at an alarming rate. Usually the thought of two attractive coves kissing would rather, well, excite one. The thought of Wallace and Jeeves, however was making my freshly settled stomach churn.

 

I missed their no doubt heartfelt adieus, as I sat with my hand clasped over my mouth. Once both sets of footsteps had vanished from my hearing I hightailed it back to the house and silently made my way to my room.

 

Only after locking my door and slipping into bed did I realise my hand was still over my mouth and for what reason. When I removed it an agonised gasp leapt from my throat, followed by a few loathsome whimpers. Tears blurred my vision and I began to weep in earnest.

 

I was going to lose Jeeves, it was a simple fact. Only a fool would give up such a life as Wallace described. For so many men of our persuasion such secure happiness was an unattainable dream.

 

And what would Jeeves really be leaving behind? Certainly he was fond of London, but Paris was a wonderful city. The French countryside too, was beautiful. Wallace was an attractive, intelligent bedmate. I was merely his employer.

 

Fresh tears welled and spilled. Yes, that was it, the true heart of the matter.  I was Jeeves’ employer, wealthy, malleable and as interchangeable and forgettable as a silk tie. I wasn’t his friend; I would certainly never have the chance to be his lover.

 

Only now, when all hope had faded, did I realise how much I longed for that. For the touch of his hand, his lips on my mine, him in my bed. I wanted to get to know him more deeply, to learn his favourite childhood memory and what, if anything, made him laugh.

 

But far more than that, I simply wanted him with me. If I could have nothing else, I just wanted Jeeves to be there. And yet... if I loved him which I now knew I did, I would have to allow him to go to the man offering him a better life.

 

***

As usual it was Jeeves who roused me from sleep, bringing me a perfectly brewed cup of tea and news of the weather. The latter was rather superfluous, as even I could hear the rain pelting against the windowpane.

 

“It seems the weather has broken, sir.” He observed.

 

I nodded and took a sip of my tea. I had no idea how to behave, considering everything I now knew and with Jeeves thinking I knew absolutely nothing. Well, I’m fairly certain Jeeves spent most of his time thinking I knew absolutely nothing in general, but this time I knew something in the specific and he didn’t know that in particular, as it were.

 

It was then that full extent of my utter pigheadness hit me. Obviously I’d always thought Jeeves rather beautiful, in what I had told myself repeatedly was an abstract way, such as when one appreciates a painting or a good sculpture. But it wasn’t that at all. More likely was the scenario in which I had recognised that I would fall in love with him more or less from our first meeting and simply hadn’t allowed myself to acknowledge the fact. Self preservation and a sort of wilful blindness had brought me to this point.

 

I suppose my face betrayed some of the muddle my brain had gotten itself into with that thought, as he frowned slightly.

 

“Are you feeling better today, sir?”

 

This, at least, was easier ground.

 

“I am much improved, Jeeves.” I certainly felt physically better. The state of my heart, however, was questionable.

 

“Very good, sir.”

 

The thing is, I very rarely find myself in the position of having to have a very serious discussion with someone. The women I accidentally become engaged to seem entirely impervious to any form of sensible conversation and the Drones have the collective intellectual depth of a very shallow puddle. So trying to engage Jeeves in a sensitive chat about emotions was rather beyond my realm of expertise.

 

Jeeves was moving about the room, picking up various items of clothing and sundries. I suddenly realised that he was packing my cases.

 

“I say, Jeeves, I thought that we weren’t heading back to the metrop for another few days?”

 

Jeeves straightened, dropping a perfectly folded shirt into the open valise atop the chest of drawers.

 

He turned towards me, a certain thingness in his gaze. Almost as if he were... wary of something.

 

“I merely thought, given your illness and the situation with Mr Cheesewright, not to mention the German Shepherd, that you would wish to be at home, sir.”

 

“Ah well, we haven’t heard from Stilton for a day, I imagine he’s calmed down or found some other victim to terrorise. And the dog seems to have vanished, perhaps he’s fallen afoul of the Grimpen Mire, eh?”

 

An almost imperceptible twitch of his lips showed that I had amused Jeeves with this remark. My damnable heart did a somersault in my chest.

 

“Perhaps, sir.” He agreed.

 

“No, you needn’t pack up just yet, Jeeves. Brinkley Court is not unlike a second home to me anyway.” Then a sudden thought struck me “Unless there is any particular reason you do not wish to stay here?”

 

In the process of placing my shirt back in the wardrobe Jeeves gave a visible start.

 

“Sir?”  He asked, although he was actually addressing the wardrobe more than me.

 

“Well, I mean we don’t have to stay here in my account, Jeeves, if you would rather be back in London. Maybe you’re sick of Anatole’s cooking or you’ve had some sort of spat with one of the servants here ... or something of that ilk?”

 

“No, sir, nothing like that.”

 

Getting Jeeves to open up on the Wallace Issue wasn’t going to work. It looked like I would have to be the one to broach the subject, however much it pained me.

 

“Jeeves.”I began. Then I stopped, as I still had absolutely no idea what to say to him.

 

He looked at me, his gaze questioning and entirely professional.

 

“I- I think the light grey pinstripe today.”

 

“Of course, sir.”

 

***

Obviously I needed more time to plan, to consider things. However, it didn’t pan out that way because almost as soon as I stood up from the breakfast table, my dearest, looniest cousin Angela dragged me off to the library to look at wedding dress patterns.

 

“Why are you asking me this, old fruit? You’d look lovely in an old bedsheet.” Having sat gazing at hundreds of near identical designs I was going half out of my mind.

 

Still, looking at the sketches was distracting me from both my splintered heart and the likely imminent loss of Jeeves. It was a bit like trading the seventh circle of hell for the sixth, but it was better than nothing.

 

“I cannot get married in an old bedsheet, Bertie. And besides, you’re going to best man, you should have some involvement!”

 

“Well, yes, in speech writing and preventing Tuppy from bolting before the big day, not in helping you decide whether to go for a dress in lavender cream or egg shell rose.”

 

“You’re my cousin, not Tuppy’s, it implies a certain level of loyalty .Besides, you used to be quite the expert on dresses, do you remember when we used to dress up in mummy’s cast offs?”

 

I did, actually. My eight year old self and Angela at seven, tottering around in  ball gowns, our nannies laughing themselves nearly sick as we impersonated the adults we’d seen at parties before we’d been shoved off to bed.

 

“Gosh, I hadn’t thought of that in years. I always thought the blue with the peacock feathers suited me.”

 

Angela whacked my arm with a design booklet. “Vain child.”

 

“Witch.”I replied, poking my tongue out. It suddenly occurred to me that I could perhaps try and explain my situation to Angela .Or attempt to, anyway.

 

“Angela...I’ve got a bit of a problem.”

 

“Bertie if you’re going to be sick again don’t do it anywhere near these designs.”

 

“No! I mean... it’s more of a personal problem.”

 

“You haven’t accidentally affianced yourself to a member of the Royal family, have you Bertie? Because you shan’t be able to weasel yourself out of that.”

 

I gave a sigh. It’s near impossible to get someone who has seen your pre adolescent self dressed in her mother’s evening wear to take you seriously.

 

Fortunately Angela noticed that I was, in fact, in earnest.

 

“You’ve really got a bee in your bonnet, haven’t you?”she said, turning sympathetic eyes towards me.

 

“Yes, rather. I was hoping to have a chat with you, if possible.”

 

“Well, certainly.” Angela looked uncertain, unused as she was to a serious Betram. I didn’t blame her, I wasn’t exactly used to him, either.

 

“Right , well. There’s a man, let’s call him Person A. Say... he overhears a conversation, or a couple of conversations which he shouldn’t have done. Quite by accident, you understand, he wasn’t deliberately snooping. But anyway, he hears these conversations between another two persons, Person B and Person C and what he hears... well what exactly he hears isn’t important. But the thrust of it is he now knows something about Persons B and C and they have no idea that he, Person A, knows anything.”

 

“I ...see?”Angela replied.

 

“You do?”

 

“I... no, not really Bertie. What’s so bad about overhearing a conversation, why is Person A so bothered?”

 

It really was dashed hard to explain anything without giving the entire game away. I was just about to try a second pass at explaining myself when Angela piped up again.

 

“And why don’t you just ask Jeeves about it, anyway? He’s usually the one who solves these dilemmas of yours, isn’t he?”

 

“I can’t ask Jeeves about this.” I replied firmly.

 

“Well, why ever not? It’s not as if he didn’t just hear you try and explain it to me anyway.”

 

“I- what?”

 

Angela rolled her eyes and sipped her tea, not realising that a wave of horrified mortification was passing over me.

 

“Well, he must have done. He was standing just over there,” she pointed to the doorway, behind my chair and therefore out of my line of vision, “for the duration of your jabbering about Persons A, B and C.”

 

I stood up, pushing my chair back with some force.

 

“Bertie?”

 

“I- I have to go and find Jeeves.” It was imperative that I did. I couldn’t let him get the wrong idea, and if he already had, I would have to explain things to him. Even if I were to lose him, it couldn’t be on bad terms.

 

“Well, good. He’ll probably solve your problem in time for elevenses.” Angela remarked.

 

I sincerely doubted that.


	3. Into the Potting Shed

It’s odd, but I instinctively knew where I’d find him. On a cold, wet, windy summer’s day, I had no doubt in my mind that a Jeeves who did not wish to be found would make a beeline for a place he imagined no Wooster would tread.

Plucking an umbrella from the stand in the hallway, I made my way through the house, heading out to the gardens. 

Rain is part and parcel of the English summer time, and rather welcome after a solid week of stifling heat. I rarely complain about the rain, unless it interrupts a particularly diverting cricket match. Still, I could have done with the lawn being a trifle less waterlogged as I tramped along, liquid seeping uncomfortably into my shoes.

I reached the potting shed and didn’t allow myself to dawdle, wrenching the door open as if it were made from a much heavier material than slightly rickety pieces of timber.

Jeeves was leaning against the workbench smoking a gasper. His hair was soaked, as was his light summer coat. He quickly moved past his initial shock at my intrusion, his bland mask quickly sliding into place, trying to make it seem as if I always came across him dripping wet in potting sheds. 

For a moment we just watched each other, I suppose because neither of us were entirely sure where we stood with one another. Almost as if we were playing a game of chess and neither of us could see the pieces on the board. 

However, I knew that I would have to speak first. After all, it was I was in the wrong. I shut the door and propped the umbrella up against it, before turning back to face a still blank-faced Jeeves. My stomach seemed to be performing the same gurgling fandango as it had been given to do yesterday and I balled my hands into deliberate fists to mask their shakiness, yet I determinedly met his eye.

“Jeeves,” I began, as it seemed as good a place to start as any. “I really must apologise to you. I honestly did not mean to overhear your conversations with Wallace.”

Whatever he was expecting me to say, it apparently wasn’t that. His eyes widened and the gasper, perched at the side of his mouth, looked in danger of slipping as his jaw slackened.

“I-sir?”

“I assume you’d worked out from hearing my chat with Angela that I had heard you and Wallace. Well, that is to say, I heard the pair of you talking. Yesterday night, in the garden and the day before that, underneath the plain tree. I was up there hiding from Cheesewright, you see, and yesterday I was just getting some fresh air. And I overheard things that I wasn’t meant to hear and it is your own, private affair and I- I’m just sorry, Jeeves.”

I had hoped this speech would appease him, somewhat. Instead a frown had appeared on his noble visage and he appeared almost...peevish. He plucked the gasper from his lips and dropped it to the floor, crunching it under his heel before drawing out his cigarette case and lighting another. 

“If you feel that way, sir, then why discuss the situation with Miss Angela?”he asked, his tone really rather pointed.

I took umbrage with that. “Well, now! It’s not as if I blurted out anything untoward, Jeeves! Surely you know I wouldn’t do that!”

He took a drag on his cigarette and said nothing, looking away from me, out at the garden beyond the small window.

“Jeeves,I would never reveal your secret.”

Jeeves tapped the ash which had accumulated on the end of his gasper into an errant flowerpot.

“I realise that, sir. You are a far better man than most.”

He still wasn’t looking at me, but he didn’t sound angry anymore, so I took that as a good sign. I leant against the workbench next to him, and patted my pockets, seeking out my own tobacco. Locating case and lighter, I lit one and pulled in a lungful, relieved to have something to do other than stand there and squirm.

Silence spread between us. It wasn’t like other silences we had shared; the comfortable ones when I was typing or reading through a manuscript and he was oiling about the flat, being useful. Nor was it much like the cold silences I received from him when I was wearing clothing or facial hair he didn’t approve of. This silence felt heavy, filled with potential danger, future conflict. Despite its near unbearable weight, I wasn’t sure I wanted it to be broken.

Eventually, though, Jeeves found the courage to do just that.

“Sir... I feel I too must apologise.”

I glanced his way, eyebrows raised, but he was staring down at his hands and lit gasper as if they had a particularly juicy extract of Spinoza written upon them.

“My behaviour, my relationship, with Mr. Wallace, whilst conducted in your employ has hardly been what polite society would consider proper-”

Well, I had to butt in there. “Jeeves, don’t apologise for that.”

“Sir?” He had stopped looking at his hands and was now staring at me quizzically.

“Jeeves, I am well aware of how difficult it can be to go along in this world without comfort, companionship. Do you honestly think I’d begrudge you that?”

Forget about quizzical, Jeeves was now looking at me like he’d never seen me before. He made a few abortive stabs at speech before finally getting a coherent sentence out.

“But, sir, if we had been discovered, the resulting scandal-”

“You weren’t discovered.”

“You overheard us!” he pointed out. He began pacing the small length of the potting shed floor.

“Jeeves, what I overheard that first evening was a slightly odd conversation between two men. Nothing more.”

He looked exasperated when he turned to stop in front of me. I had never seen Jeeves show such a wide range of emotions, and I was a little annoyed I was too het up to enjoy the novelty.

“Any other employer would have sacked me on the spot.”

“I’m not a hypocrite.” Too late I realised what I had said, what I had revealed. But I also realised that it was only fair that Jeeves knew about me, as I knew about him.

“What?”

“I can’t sack you for something that I myself have indulged in.”

Jeeves’ face was a mask of utter shock. He began shaking his head, turning from me, before turning back, just as quickly.

“With women, sir. You mean with women.” His tone was almost pleading with me to confirm that it was the female of the species who held the power to move me.

It was at that point that I finally gave up all hope that Jeeves would ever see me as anything other than his mildly amusing, constantly dim-witted employer. I looked down at my feet to avoid his penetrating gaze.

“No, Jeeves. Not with women.” I replied, quietly. I clamped my lips around my cigarette, hoping that holding tension in my jaw would stop my expression from displaying my unruly emotions.

Once again silence reigned in the potting shed. Jeeves seemed utterly motionless, stunned by my revelation. I would, quite frankly, have preferred to be anywhere else in the world at that particular moment. However, I rather forcefully shoved my own feelings aside; this discussion wasn’t about me and my quandaries. I stubbed out my gasper and squared my shoulders.

“Jeeves, I know that this really isn’t my place to say, but I just want you to have the kind of life you deserve and I’m well aware of what Wallace offered you... I shan’t stand in your way if it is what you want.”

I was rather impressed with my little speech, uttered as it was in an even and sincere voice. If I was truly being honest I would have fallen to the floor and clung to his ankles to stop him from ever leaving me. 

“Sir, ...I don’t know what to say.”

I attempted a smile, which I feared came out rather bitter.

“You must take happiness where you can find it, Jeeves.”

I risked a glance at him. For once he looked less than pristine, his face was pale, and if I looked closely I could see darkish circles under his eyes, evidently from the late nights he’d been sharing with Wallace, in this very outbuilding. He looked so very human, a far cry from the untouchable paragon he presented himself as. 

Oddly, he was also smiling somewhat bitterly, as if something I had said amused him, but not in a good way.

“Is that what I’m doing, sir? ‘Taking happiness where I can’?”

Not really knowing what to say that I kept quiet. I mean, what does one stay to that? If the last few days had made anything clear to me, it was the fact that I knew next to nothing about my valet and even less about his personal life.

He sighed, audibly. Clearly he wanted some sort of answer from me, and did not recognise how difficult it was to formulate one. I was having a Cordelia like moment: I couldn’t heave the old heart into the mouth.

“I suppose you’re right, sir. I have been taking a measure of happiness where I could.”

It was no less than I expected, for Jeeves to admit Wallace made him happy, but it still hurt to have it confirmed. 

“I’m glad.” I managed to say, even if I sounded anything but. I stared resolutely at the floor, slightly worried that he might see the gathering tears in my eyes.

Bizarrely it was then that Jeeves seemed to very nearly explode with anger. He went from sedate but rather downcast to utterly furious within mere seconds.

“How can... how can you possibly just sit there and be so- so accepting of this?”

His sudden rage completely threw me for a loop as I couldn’t even begin to discern why he was angry. 

“Jeeves, I mean to say, what?”

I suppose I must have looked rather pitifully confused as his ire seemed to drop somewhat when he looked at me.

“Sir, it’s just... these past few years I’ve been attempting to convince myself that no one can be as kind and understanding as you appear to be.”

Why he was getting angry over what he perceived to be a pleasant part of my nature I just couldn’t fathom. He crossed the floor to stand in front of me, regarding me with as tender an expression as I’d ever seen on his face, even though there was still that air of excited exasperation about him. Perhaps it was a reaction to my still rather obvious bewilderment.   
“I’m afraid you’re not making yourself terribly clear, old thing.”  
“No.” he replied, a slightly distracted edge to his voice. “I’ve never really had much talent in that arena, sir.”

 

I had to scoff at that. “Come now, Jeeves, you’re awfully good at explaining things to me, usually. I know I’m hardly the sharpest knife in the drawer, but this is important, isn’t it?”

 

His tender-ish expression changed a little, like he was melting around the edges and it was causing him pain.

 

“Sir, this... this isn’t a path either of us can safely navigate.”

 

“Jeeves, I do not intend to take you on an emotional expedition, I merely wish to... mend anything which might have been damaged between us. Especially if...” I trailed off. 

 

Despite all my resolve to be fair and level headed I couldn’t bring myself to mention the proposal that Wallace had laid at Jeeves’ feet yet again

“Well, it doesn’t matter.” I said, straightening up. “I only wished to apologise and hope you can accept it, Jeeves.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Excellent. Jolly good.”

Of course, there was still the issue of whether he was planning to leave hanging in the air, like a sword of Damo-whatsit. But that was his affair entirely. I could not beg him to stay any more than I could tell him to pack his bags and go. Jeeves was a free man, one that should follow his own heart. If his Viking spirit cleaved towards Wallace then I would simply have to grin and bear it. 

I suddenly could not stand the closeness of the potting shed and Jeeves’ quiet scrutiny. I needed to release some of the pent up feeling which had built in me during the fraught conversation. Perhaps a run through the rain would be just the thing. Or a quick dunk in the lake.

“Well, I shall see you back at the house, then.” I said and quickly made for the door.

Jeeves halted my progress with a gentle hand on my arm. He regarded me with an expression of what I can only describe as determined terror, before placing a hand on my cheek.

The world seem to slow down. I could hear my very blood sluicing about the old corpus. I thought my spine might be crumbling. I could see Jeeves’ eyelashes, the arch of his brow, the curving slope of his nose, the dip of his lip as he leant in and kissed me.

As kisses go it wasn’t the best I’ve ever had laid upon me. It was rather a stilted, closed lip affair, all grim persistence on Jeeves’ part and all flailing confusion on mine. I was, of course, aware that I was being kissed, but heaven knew I didn’t have the first ounce of an inkling as to why. 

Perhaps because of my epic confusion my brain seemed to stutter out like an unguarded candle in the midst of a snowstorm. It has been remarked, a touch hurtfully, that Bertie Wooster may be lacking in the brains department but at least he’s not too awful to look at. Well, it seemed that my body had other uses as well, and wasn’t too bad at taking control when the chap who mans the old upstairs controls popped off on an unexpected holiday.

In short, I grabbed the collar of Jeeves coat and pulled him close. Jeeves, who I now sensed had been moving to let go of the young master to check if he was still breathing and hadn’t turned into a six foot tall beached haddock of a man, let out a slightly startled noise. My arms wound around Jeeves’ neck, the fingers of one hand sinking idly into the silky hair at the top of his neck. The kiss, which had previously been of the awkward bent of a maiden aunt and the village Vicar caught under the mistletoe at Christmastime, was now heating up into something entirely more likely to land one in the chokey with the distinct feeling of it being utterly worth it.

Whilst I have a couple of inches on Jeeves in overall height, being what kinder people would call ascetically slender, and others would call lanky, Jeeves is broader and altogether stronger than myself. Which is why I wasn’t too surprised to find that whilst I’d done the initial grabbing and winding, Jeeves was the one who pressed me against the door and set about the task of trying to reduce my legs to jelly with apparent glee.

Of course, it was then that the old noggin awakened and I suddenly realised that whilst everything felt dashed incredible and wonderful and stupendous and all that, it wasn’t exactly right.

Not a day earlier I’d heard Jeeves receive the closest thing to a marriage proposal that a man could receive from another man, so it certainly wasn’t preux to be necking with the chap. Plus there was that awful nagging feeling that I still hadn’t the first clue as to why Jeeves was kissing me. We’d been on our own on many occasions in the years of his employ and never once had he thrown the ironing on the floor and swept me into his arms in a fit of unbridled passion. Not that I could imagine Jeeves, even an impassioned and romantic Jeeves, would ever throw ironing on the floor.

 

Manfully, and with not a small amount of regret, I loosened my grip on him and drew away from Jeeves slightly, so I could look at him.

Jeeves, I don’t know if I’ve told you, is a man with an air of glamour about him. Rather like a picture star, in some respects, one only sees him thoroughly groomed and well collected. 

However, this Jeeves did not look thoroughly groomed or the slightest bit collected. His hair had dried so it stuck out at oddish angles, a fringe falling rather rakishly over his noble brow. My ministrations certainly hadn’t helped, because in addition to his unkempt hair, his collar and tie were loosened, his lips were swollen and two high spots of colour shone on his cheeks. His eyes, too, were very dark, and looked almost to be made of glass, so reflective and glazed as they were. He was stunningly beautiful.

That glazed look quickly faded into wariness as he regarded me. I had no doubt that I looked like a red faced lunatic, Lord only knows how wild my hair must have been if Jeeves’ was messy. Of course, I knew I needed to ask him some important questions, which is why I was rather surprised when what slipped out of my mouth with no intervention from my brain was;

“Please tell me that wasn’t simply a response to being in a potting shed.”

I have never claimed to be particularly bright, but even I recognised that as a distressingly low point on the Wooster Scale of Intellectual Brilliance.

Jeeves simply stared at me for a moment, his eyebrows raised rather quizzically. Then, shockingly, he began to laugh. Not a bark of laughter or a satirical sneer. No, this was a deep pleasant chuckle which I felt to my very bones, and not simply because we were still standing so closely together.

“No, sir.” He still looked faintly amused even when he saw my serious expression. He was still holding me in his arms and as much as I wanted to sink into them and stay there for all eternity, I knew that I shouldn’t. At least not without clarifying a few issues.

“Jeeves,”I hedged, “It’s, erm, it’s not that that wasn’t extremely enjoyable I just... I mean to say, what?”

I’m not exactly sure how to describe what happened to Jeeves’ expression, but I suppose one might liken it to a cloud passing in front of the sun on a beautiful summer’s day. One moment you’re bathed in stunning sunshine, basking in heat and the next the world has gone dull and you’re reaching for a pullover to ward off the sudden chill. Jeeves’ happy, open smile was gone, replaced by a shocked, somehow empty look.

“I- I’m sorry, sir.” he said, and his voice was so unlike his usual assured tone that worry lanced through me. He pulled away from me, eyes firmly averted.

“Jeeves-”

“I don’t know what came over me, I’m terribly sorry, sir.” And then he was out of the door, into the driving rain, before I could collect my rather scattered marbles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while, chaps, this chapter just wouldn't get itself organised. It took many rewrites, believe me! I appreciate all the lovely support and kudos, you're a fab bunch. Hope you enjoyed!


	4. Out of the frying pan...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm terribly sorry for the delay, chaps. The old brain has been a dashed dreadful blighter of late, suffering with both the black dog and the writer's block. Suffice to say I'm back in a rather sunnier disposish of late and I'm hoping to get this work finished soon! Thanks for sticking with, you are all particular dream rabbits of the dreamist type. Toodle-Pip!

It was a rather sodden and thoroughly distressed Bertram who re-entered Brinkley Court’s welcoming and, more to the point, dry, environs. Jeeves, of course, had managed to vanish without a bally trace, and short of striding down to the servant’s quarters and demanding to speak to the man at a time of day I could be certain he’d be there, I didn’t have many ways of tracking him down.

I had entertained the possibility that he’d fled to some other part of the garden, but that was unlikely, given the rain. I also didn’t fancy wandering about the garden shouting for Jeeves like that Heathcliff chappy had for his Cathy. That tale had hardly ended well, something about digging up corpses to hug them or some rot. One really wonders what exactly those Bronte sisters got up to on those moors.

On the other foot, there was also the rather pertinent fact that Jeeves was not my Jeeves, not really. One unbelievably tender pash in a potting shed does not a loving relationship make and I was not one of those oafish brutes who thought that simply because Jeeves’ job required him to call me his master that meant I somehow owned the poor fellow. Jeeves was his own man, and if he did not wish to be found, then, as dejected I was feeling, it was not my business to go seeking him out.

I stood, dripping on the carpets for a few seconds, attempting to get myself together. The stiff upper lip needed a bit of girding, if you understand my meaning. Fortunately, only one of the newer maids was to be seen in the corridor I was dripping in, and she simply smiled at me kindly. Obviously someone below stairs had tipped her off as to young Master Betram’s eccentricities, so she wasn’t alarmed by the drowned rat appearance of her employer’s beloved nephew.

“Are you alright, sir?” she asked, which was jolly kind of her, all things considered, as I’m sure I had the look of a drenched madman. 

“Oh, yes, yes, my dear, perfectly alright.” I replied, hastening to reassure the girl, who did look genuinely concerned.

“Perhaps you’d like a cup of tea, sir?” she suggested.

I have never been a man to turn down a cup of tea, even in the most dire of straits. In fact, I find it tends to soothe the nerves quite like nothing else. Well, save for a decent gin martini, but even I frown upon drinking before lunch has been served. 

“That would be marvellous, thanks awfully. Lilly, isn’t it?”

She’d been smiling and turning away but then turned back, slightly startled.

“Yes, sir. It is, sir.” she replied, looking at me with a queerer expression than before. 

“Well, thank you very much, Lilly, I shall be in the drawing room. Just need to nip off and get myself out of these wet togs. And into some dry ones, of course, you needn’t be alarmed.” 

Gratifyingly, she laughed a little at that. At least I could guarantee that one of the servants currently at Brinkley Court didn’t have cause to dislike me.

In my journey through the house I failed to catch even the slightest suggestion of Jeeves’ presence, and of course, he was not waiting for me in my room. Even so my heart sank slightly, regarding the empty bedchamber with a despondent glance.

After I’d stripped out of my wet outer layer and redressed in dry clothing I headed back downstairs for the drawing room. I wanted a little time to sit, drink my tea and mull over the events of the morning. Unfortunately the drawing room, which I had hoped would be a haven of quiet solitude, was in fact, filled rather to the brim with a hopping mad Tuppy Glossop.

“Wooster!” came the enraged cry of the furious Tuppy, “Just what in the hell have you been saying to my fiancée?”

“Erm... is this about recommending the lavender cream and the bias cut? I realise they aren’t the most traditional of combos, but I am sure she’ll look stunning.” I hashed, unsure as to why old Glossop should be so livid over his beloved’s wedding dress. I was certain he’d be more likely to pitch a fit over the cake, if anything about the wedding interested him at all.

Tuppy, who generally has a complexion comparable with that of a freshly dug radish, appeared to be turning beetroot.

“What are you twittering on about? I’m talking about you,” and at this he thrust a finger forth and into my sternum, with some force, “telling my fiancé that I’m having second thoughts!” He jabbed me again, as if for emphasis, or perhaps because he was trying to break my ribs, I wasn’t entirely certain.  
“I- what? I never said anything like that at all!” I exclaimed, rather flabbergasted. 

“Oh yes, of course you’d claim that now she’s called the whole bloody show off!” he roared, prodding at me again. I caught his hand, as I had had quite enough of this unprovoked poking and we set about scuffling, like undignified lads in the fourth form, who’ve had a bout of conkers go awry.

I must admit that if I’d had a less emotionally unbalanced day, I would probably have attempted to sit Tuppy down and have a sensible(ish) chat with him about wires being crossed and tangled webs of deceit and all that. As it stood, my heart was right on the edge of the cliff, about to be shoved off into the sea of the permanently broken, and to be honest, I fear I was rather spoiling for a fight. And besides, Tuppy had started it, I was certain my chest would bear fingertip sized bruises in the morning. 

And so it came to pass that when Lily entered the room with the tea things she found that I had Mr Hildebrand Glossop in a headlock. Her alarmed scream brought just about everyone running from all corners of the house.

***

“Fighting! Honestly! In the drawing room! What on earth has gotten into you, Bertie!” Aunt Dahlia was in fine fettle, I feared people in the next county might be able to hear her dressing me down.

I manfully resisted the urge to point out that it was Tuppy, and not myself, who had begun the physical attacks upon the person. Instead I looked around the room at the collection of people who had gathered upon hearing Lily’s scream. Angela had sunk into an armchair, a picture of jilted misery, Uncle Tom was pouring himself some tea, Wallace was leaning against the mantelpiece looking thoroughly delighted, and even Lily lingered, apparently waiting to see if any more tea should be provided at this impromptu meeting of houseguests. Jeeves, however, was conspicuously absent.

My Aunt Dahlia, sadly, was ever present.

“And in the drawing room!” she repeated, as if it would’ve all been fine if only Tuppy and I had possessed the decency to start tearing lumps out of one another in the dining room.

“A thousand apologies, dearest Aunt-”I began, only to be interrupted by Tuppy.

“Oh, you’ll apologise to her then, but not to me, when I am the wronged party!”

“Wronged party? You’re the one who is sneaking behind my back telling all and sundry that you want to break off our engagement!” Angela exclaimed, raising her decidedly tear free face from her handkerchief.

“I have done nothing of the kind, Wooster is dripping poison in your ear and you are fool enough to believe it, you mad woman!” roared Tuppy.

Aunt Dahlia looked thoroughly bewildered whilst Wallace looked rather delighted. I expected that all this kind of romantic drama was grist to his mill and this exact scene would appear in one of his dreary romances. Angela looked as if she would start weeping or upend the occasional table, depending on how her mood took her. Uncle Tom was selecting a ginger biscuit from the tea tray.

And it was at this point I quite thoroughly lost my rag.

“For God’s sake, Tuppy, if you love my cousin you best not call her a mad woman, and if you ever do so again in my presence I’ll be certain to box your ears properly. Angela, I’m sorry if I’ve caused you any distress but you’ve gotten quite the wrong end of the stick, Tuppy has nothing to do with the tale I told you earlier. Aunt Dahlia, if I’d been in my right frame of mind I would have shoved Tuppy into that pottery lamp of Uncle Tom’s you hate so much. And Lily, I’m terribly sorry if I startled you, but quite frankly, Tuppy was being an absolutely pigheaded little squirt and needed dealing with.”

There was a startled silence after my round of apologies, nothing much could be heard save for my heavier than usual breathing (one tends to take more gaps between one’s sentences than I’d afforded myself) and Uncle Tom‘s chewing of the gingersnap.

“Well. What on earth were you talking about, if not Hildebrand?” Angela asked, her expression quizzical, as if she could not envisage a conversation which did not somehow involved her (newly restored) beloved.

“Erm, well-” I began, and then stopped, as one should generally know where one’s going before one starts out and, to be perfectly honest, I hadn’t a bally clue where I was likely to end up.

“All that spiel about overhearing things and not being able to tell me what you overheard, well why can’t you?” Angela urged.

Suddenly inspiration struck.

“Because, my dearest cousin, it goes against the Code of the Woosters. What was overheard was private and not to be bandied about in drawing rooms where all and sundry can hear it. And,” I added, because once inspiration had struck it seemed to hit an untapped well of deception, “The persons involved are not present, nor do you know them, so it’s none of your business anyway.”

That seemed to satisfy the assembled company. The wedding was back on and the crisis was averted, Wallace was none the wiser as to my accidental eavesdropping and Tuppy had started in on the biscuits, a sure sign I was forgiven.

I sat down to drink a victorious cup of tea, only to be reminded that I had nothing much to celebrate. Yes, my dear cousin’s nuptials were back on the cards and I hadn’t been bludgeoned to death with a fire poker by her spurned fiancé, but I was still in a rather hopeless situation re the Jeeves/ Wallace liaison. I had hoped for a few minutes to stew quietly in my own juices, lest a flash of brilliance come to me, highly unlikely as that was.

Alas, it was not to be, as Wallace himself sank down into the armchair next to mine.

“Glad to see you’re out of bed and up to your old tricks, old bean.” Wallace grinned at me.

“Yes, rather.” I replied, although my mind wasn’t particularly invested in the conversation, it kept spiralling away to wherever Jeeves was, wondering what he might be thinking.

I hated to think of him distressed or worried, and I longed to find him and reassure him. 

“You are looking much better today, Jeeves must have worked his magic on you. That man really is a marvel, isn’t he?” Wallace said.

Fortunately I had not been taking a sip of tea when Wallace decided to mention Jeeves as I had been the previous morning when J. had m’d W. I managed to rein in my startle and disguise it as a slightly overenthusiastic nod.

“Oh, yes, he is. Truly a wonder.” I replied, hoping I sounded like a man talking about his excellent valet, and not Madeline Bassett drivelling on about dream rabbits and toadstools.

“You must be terribly fond of him, what?”

My ears pricked up at this. Suddenly I felt like one of those chappies who gets hauled in by the law for questioning in one of my murder mysteries. Wallace was feeling me out for information, I was certain of that. 

I shifted a little in my seat. “Well, certainly. He is one of a kind. An absolute paragon.”

Wallace eyed me then, his pale blue eyes narrowing, just a fraction. 

“Oh yes. He’s definitely that.” Wallace agreed.

A sudden thought struck me. Supposing I hadn’t been quite so effective in my covering up a few minutes before and Wallace suspected I had been talking to Angela of his affair de coeur with Jeeves. I decided, with a slightly sinking heart, I was going to have to bung the old daft-as-a-brick-oblivious-as-a-tree mask on.

“I say, Wallace, you aren’t trying to pinch my valet, are you?” I widened the eyes, the whole routine being laid on thickly, as if with a trowel.

It was Wallace who startled at this, his own baby blues widening even farther than my own.

“Certainly not! I was- well I mean to say- I” he flustered.

“Calm yourself, old thing, my apologies.” I replied, holding up a hand, “Didn’t mean to imply you were up to anything underhand”- (although of course I knew he very much was, up to underhanded deeds, as it were)- “I routinely have chaps trying to tempt Jeeves away to pastures new, one has to be circumspect!”

Wallace, apparently assured that I was an idiot with barely half a clue, smiled at me.

“You sorted out Tuppy and Miss Travers rather well there.” He said, obviously choosing to steer well clear of the subject of valets and where their Viking spirit may compel them to wander.

“Oh, yes, well. One can’t help but think that people tend to overcomplicate things when it comes to matters of the heart, what? I mean to say, if you’re fond of someone, like Tuppy is of Angela and vice versa, you shouldn’t get bogged down in all the petty little things and focus on the whole- well business of liking each other I suppose.”

“Here, here.” Wallace agreed, “I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

And then he smiled again, an altogether warmer and happier grin. I felt like an utter heel. One does not simply offer to spend one’s life with another gent because they’ve got a corking profile and a brilliantly fish fed brain. Wallace was obviously ankles over elbows for Jeeves.

What a bally mess we were all in.

***  
It has to be said that I am not exactly a patient fellow. We all like to think of ourselves as being like those virtuous stoic types, chucking cups of water on the ground and insisting we’re perfectly happy and the like, but frankly, I was champing at the bit to see Jeeves that evening. At the same time, of course, I was completely dreading it.

Supposing he still wore that sad, lost look he’d had when he fled from the potting shed? Supposing he’d slipped back behind the mask and I was never to see that tender, affectionate, giggling Jeeves again? One tries to think of stratagems but I honestly did not know what I would be faced with when Jeeves came to dress me for the dinner hour.

I decided, for my part, that I needed to calm my nerves, so roughly about twenty minutes before Jeeves normally turned up to bung me in the old soup and fish, I made myself a b and s which was rather heavy on the b with only a dash of s. I can’t say it calmed my nerves much but at least sipping at a drink would stop me leaping from my chair every time I heard even the slightest squeak from the corridor.

Eventually I heard the distinct glide of a paragon in polished brogues making his way up the stairs. The b and s was all gone and I was suddenly terribly aware of my own arms. What did I normally do with my arms, I thought in a blind panic, it wasn’t as if I’d just sprouted them out of nowhere. I crossed them, then uncrossed them, lest Jeeves think I was putting up an aggressive front. Dangling them at my sides was right out, so I decided to light a cigarette in an attempt to look insouciant and not like a man who had spent the last minute panicking about what his limbs should be doing.

Jeeves entered the room just as I’d lit my gasper, and there was a brief moment where our eyes met, me sat in my chair in a fresh cloud of smoke, Jeeves at the door looking chalky faced and uncertain. It was rather like our last meeting, but in reverse.

“Sir-” he began, and then stopped, before pulling the door shut behind him. 

He looked at me, and then drew something from his pocket. Something suspiciously letter shaped.

He cleared his throat. “Sir, I came to apologise for my earlier behaviour and to give you my letter of resignation in person.” His stuffed frog impression was at the height of its bally powers I can tell you that. “I only hope you can forgive my indiscretion. If not I will accept any punishment you see fit in the knowledge that I acted against your wishes.”

I suppose at this point I must’ve looked rather stuffed myself, I was sitting there, gawking at him. It was only when Jeeves let out a little cough like the sheep on the distant hillock did I realise I was doing so, and I was suddenly jerked into animation.

“Jeeves, don’t talk such utter rot! Why on earth- do you think I’m going to call the police on you? Heaven’s above, man. You didn’t offend me earlier, not in the slightest. I just didn’t, and still don’t, know why happened.” 

Jeeves winced, rather as he had done when he’d first seen a natty paisley waistcoat which I’d purchased and had long since mourned the loss of.

When he spoke his voice was even quieter and somehow rougher; “Sir,- I- surely the reasons behind my earlier actions do not bear much on the outcome of this situation?”, he looked down at the carpet, “I will resign and find another position-”

Well, that rather threw me. “What do you mean, ‘you’ll find another position’ when you resign, which you most certainly won’t, Jeeves, not over this, but I mean to say- aren’t you going to France with Wallace?”

“I can’t, sir.” His voice was barely above a whisper now.

“Why ever not? I thought you-”

“I don’t love him, sir. I had thought our relationship was purely carnal, when he asked me to leave with him last night I did not know what to say.” Jeeves looked up then, rather beseechingly. 

He looked exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes even more pronounced than they had been earlier in the potting shed. More than that, he looked miserable and helpless. I was up and over to him in a flash.

“Oh, Jeeves. Jeeves, sit down old thing.” It was a sign of just how bally worn out he was that the feudal spirit within him bent so far as to allow him to sit on the y.m’s bed. Once assured that he wasn’t about to topple over I sat myself down next to him and feeling bold, I slipped an arm about his shoulders. 

“It’s alright, Jeeves. Many a time have you fished me out of the soup in an effort to avoid an unwanted engagement, this isn’t much different.” I gave his shoulder a squeeze.

I was surprised but rather gratified when Jeeves pressed closer, almost so his noble brow rested against the curve of my own shoulder. I could feel the tremors of weariness through his body.

“I have tried to think of a solution, sir, but it is proving difficult.” He confided to me. Or rather to my shoulder.

“Yes, I suppose you can’t exactly bung a dozen cats in your room and claim mental negligence, what? He’d know there was something iffy going on, those being suspiciously un-Jeeves like activities.” I stroked his shoulder in what I hoped was a soothing manner. “And I suspect the poor blighter is rather more gone on you than any of those dratted beazels were on me.”

“I never meant- I didn’t think he would want anything more from me. No one-” he stopped there but I knew how that sentence ended. “No one ever has before.”

I patted his shoulder again, feeling about as useless as I ever have.

“We’ll sort this out Jeeves, if you’re truly sure you don’t want to go and live with Wallace then by Jove, I shan’t see you condemned to a life you do not want to lead. And if you truly wish to resign, well as I say, I cannot stop you.”

I felt him tense beside me, his spine straightening slowly. He blinked at me, and, as if coming back to himself, looked rather alarmed.

“Sir- I-”

He moved to stand up but I snatched at his hand. He stilled as I curled my fingers around his and looked him in the eye

“Jeeves- look, if you want to leave, fine. But Jeeves, dash it, just answer me this one question. Why did you kiss me in the potting shed?”

He looked as if he’d swallowed a brick. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. I sighed, it looked as if I were going to have to lay the cards on the table, though God only knew if I could articulate myself well enough to get Jeeves understanding the lay of the land, to mix metaphors. 

“Jeeves, I will put this plainly as I can. Did you kiss the young master simply because we were caught up in the emotion of the moment and it was simply a friendly labial press between two chaps who might, in certain circs, be considered chums?”

Jeeves shook his head, still mute but looking slightly less terrified. Hope bloomed in my heart as large as the high summer roses in the garden.

“So did you, in fact, kiss me and have consented to have me touch you thusly,” I squeezed his hand tightly, “because you do, in fact, harbour feelings which could be considered amorous, towards me, Jeeves.”

He shut his eyes and swallowed. Cleared his throat. Generally stalled for time.

“Sir-”

“Please, Jeeves.”

He looked down at our joined hands.

“Yes, sir. I do harbour-”

I’m afraid that was as far as I would let the poor man get, as I all but hurled myself bodily at him, letting out a rather loud whoop of glee. Jeeves was rather surprised to find himself with an armful, and dare I say it, a lapful, of young Bertram. I took his face in my hands.

 

“Jeeves. I mean to say, Reginald. I mean to say Jeeves, if you prefer Jeeves but I rather like Reginald. Jeeves. I love you.”

Jeeves did not exactly look delighted. In fact, the expression on his face was slipping from shock into a sort of hostile coldness.

“Sir, I find that very hard to believe.” He declared. And he meant it to sting.


	5. ... and into the sitting room

Well, what does one say to that? To go from the heights of joy to the crushing depths of despair in a matter of seconds has a rather detrimental effect on one’s ability to speak. I stared at Jeeves in a most unintelligent and uncomprehending manner. My hands slipped from Jeeves’s face, and I was left feeling rather foolish, sitting on the knees of the man I loved deeply, and who had rather roundly rejected me.

“But- why?” I asked. “Why can’t you believe it?”

Jeeves didn’t actually tip me off his lap, but there was certainly a moment where I might have ended up writhing on the floor like an upturned tortoise if I hadn’t had the presence of mind to hop off him as he stood up.

“Sir- I have been in your employ for many years and never, _not once_ , have you looked at me with the slightest inkling that you might have some deeper feeling for me.” Jeeves said, his voice measured and calm, but I could see that his hands were shaking, ever so slightly.

“But-”

“I truly did not intend to kiss you, today, sir. It was a mistake.” Jeeves said, firmly.

I bit my lip. It was of course, what I had been expecting, on some level. But after hearing Jeeves admit that he acted upon feelings, but the feelings were in fact, a mistake, I couldn’t help but feel like I had been run over by one of those bally great trams that tootle up and down Highgate Hill.

“Sir- please don’t be upset-” Jeeves began, in a gentle tone.

“Don’t be upset? This isn’t like you’ve set fire to all the spotted handkerchiefs in my wardrobe, Jeeves!” I pointed out.

Jeeves sighed, loudly. “Sir, I hardly wished to fall in love in with you, I resisted it at every turn!” He declared.

It was rather like being slapped in the face, and considering the fact that I had already felt like I had been emotionally struck by a tram, I was very nearly reeling.

“You don’t want to love me?” I asked, quietly, fearing the answer.

“Sir, it is the cardinal rule for servants, do not fall in love with your masters.” Jeeves said, simply.

I swallowed. “Then perhaps it is better if I do accept your resignation.”

Jeeves stood, frozen to the spot for a moment, and then he nodded.

“I understand, sir.”

“Well, I’m glad one of us does. I tell you I love you, you tell me I can’t possibly, but it doesn’t matter anyway, because you don’t want to be in love with a lard headed oik like myself. Actually, come to think of it, I understand completely, Jeeves, I wouldn’t want to be in love with me either.” I said, going to my wardrobe to change my suit. I may have had my heart handed back to me with a ‘return to sender’ label stuck to it, but I would still be expected to dress for dinner.

“Sir- I didn’t say-” Jeeves was using that same placating tone and it danced on my shattered nerves like a spider in clogs. That is to say, it was irritating in the extreme.

“Your resignation has been accepted, Jeeves, you may take your leave.” I said, as icily as possible.

“But your black tie, sir.” Jeeves said, and I turned to find him staring at me, looking more lost than I had ever seen him.

“I can dress myself, Jeeves.” I stared back at him, careful to keep my expression blank. Jeeves looked taken aback, I suppose by the sombre look he had never seen on my face before. Eventually he nodded, and took his leave, not even glancing back, and shutting the door with a quiet click.

I suppose it may have been losing my parents at a young age, but I’ve always been rather good at hiding how I feel when I’ve been deeply hurt. I had been informed by my Aunt Dahlia that boys can’t continue weeping over things they can’t change. That isn’t to say that I do not cry- as evidenced already, it is fairly obvious that I do. I am simply highly adept at holding the urge to weep in until I am alone.

I listened to Jeeves’ footsteps get quitter and quieter as he drifted through the hall, and only then did I let the tears I wished to shed fall.

 

***

Splashing my face with water a few minutes later, I tried to formulate a plan. A rather large part of me wished to simply pack my bag and high tail it off back to the metrop, but I couldn’t do that. There had been a Wooster who met his fate at Agincourt, I could certainly stand to attend dinner even with a broken heart.

I had just started down the stairs when I heard my Aunt Dahlia yelling for me. You may recall that the woman has a voice more powerful than your average foghorn, so I could hardly pretend I hadn’t heard her.

“Yes, my dear aged A?” I called, as I reached the bottom step.

The woman herself appeared in the hallway, peering up at me, a quizzical look on her face.

“How did you get there?” she asked.

It seemed a rather unreasonable question given the circumstances.

“Well, I was at the top of the stairs and then you called me and now I’m here.” I replied.

She glared at me.  “I can see that you, great fool. I was rather certain that you were over there, in the billiard room.”

“Well, why are you calling me if you knew where I was?” I asked.

“Evidently it’s a good thing I did call you because I didn’t know where you were, young blot on the landscape. It must have been that writer fellow, Wallace. I actually thought he was your spit when I first met him, after he wrote the piece for _Boudoir_.  Could almost pass for twins. No offence intended, Mr Wallace.” My aunt said, as Terrence Wallace joined us in the hallway.

I looked over at Wallace, and therefore saw the very second that my aunt’s innocent words sunk in. He blinked, glanced at me, and then paled horribly.

I’m not sure how either of us hadn’t seen it before then. Perhaps because we were both men of a certain persuasion who couldn’t be persuaded to do anything with a chap who looked just like them. We probably hadn’t looked at each other very closely at any point during our acquaintance, due to a complete lack of interest. But my dear Aunt Dahlia had hit upon the truth with a sledgehammer: we looked very alike. Both blonde, willowy, tall, and blue eyed.

 It wouldn’t take too much of stretch of the imagination to pretend one Terence Wallace was in fact a certain Bertram Wooster. And with an imagination like Jeeves’s…

“Oh, well, come now dear Aunt, Wallace is much cleverer than me.” I protested, trying to lighten Wallace’s mood.

But the damage had been done; I could see it plastered all over Wallace’s face. He looked rather like I had a few moments before; gazing into the bathroom mirror at a miserable blighter with thoroughly dashed hopes.

“Hardly an achievement my young blot.” Aunt Dahlia replied, affably.

Wallace looked like he needed a sit down and a stiff drink.

“I say Wallace how about a pre-dinner snifter?” I suggested, hoping that I could distract him with banal prattling until he could get himself together.

I’m not particularly renowned for being good for much, but some of my chums might grudgingly admit that I’m rather good at keeping the old spirits up. And I have found, over the years, that if one can also bung a lot of alcoholic spirits down the throat of the person who needs their emotional spirits raising that can be highly beneficial.

“Just a minute Bertram.” My dearest aunt interjected, as I grabbed the elbow of the poor afflicted Wallace.

“Yes?” I asked pleasantly, and hopefully, not too sharply. I felt a pressing need to get Wallace somewhere quiet before the fellow keeled over.

“That other blot on the landscape, Cheesewright, has been spotted in the village again. Don’t go skulking off down there, no matter how appealing the pub might be; we all like your face as it is.”

To think I had forgotten about Cheesewright! All of my revelations re Jeeves and Wallace, and myself and Jeeves, and finally myself and Wallace, could be traced to that blighter and the single headed Cerberus who had forced me to take refuge in the heights of that plain tree. 

“Message received and understood. Steer clear of an angered Cheesewright at all costs.” I agreed.

I dragged Wallace rather forcibly towards the private sitting room where my Uncle Tom spent much of his life asleep with an improving book on his chest and slammed the door behind us. Fortunately the room was empty allowing us to indulge in either delicate conversation or heavy drinking as we so wished.

Wallace sank into a chair his head in his hands. I poured a generous amount of b. into a glass and completely forewent the s. It was that sort of evening.

I handed him the brandy and crouched down in front of him. He regarded me soupily for a moment before his face cracked miserably. He was the very picture of abject misery, rather like one of his heroines before the rich fellow comes and rescues her from whatever degradation or misery she has found themselves in. I feared that none of us were going to have the happy ending we hoped for.

“Look, Wallace-” I began, gently.

“Oh- oh, God. You know, don’t you?” The poor man looked utterly wretched.

 There really was no use prevar-whatsit-ing.  Banal prattling wasn’t going to cut the mustard, as the saying goes. Quite why one would need to cut mustard I’ve never been entirely sure, all mustard I have ever confronted usually being rather soft to begin with.

“Yes. I know- not everything, but I can put it together. I’m not as dim as you might think.”

Wallace took a large sip of the huge measure I had poured for him.

“So what is it Wooster? Blackmail? Am I never to go near your manservant again?” He laughed bitterly, “It doesn’t matter anyway, does it? It was never me he wanted.”

I sighed and stood up.

“No, I have no intentions to either blackmail you or stop you from seeing Jeeves if you both wish it. I just thought- well you needed a moment to yourself, didn’t you?”

Wallace stared into his glass for a moment.

“He said you were kind.”

“Jeeves?”

Wallace winced slightly at the mention of his name.

“Yes. I asked him why he stayed in your employ and he said it was because you were kind. I thought perhaps he meant you were generous with tips but- that isn’t it, is it?” He gazed at me, his big blue eyes turning slightly red around the edges.

“I’ve no idea what he meant by it.” I said.

Wallace let out another choked laugh. “Yes, because of course this how all men react when they find out that their manservant is shagging a pale imitation of himself. They all take the pale imitation off to make sure he doesn’t start weeping at the dinner table- Christ.”

I fished around in my pocket and found a handkerchief and held it out to Wallace, who took it from me and dabbed at his eyes.

“You’re hardly a pale imitation, Wallace.” I offered.

Wallace scoffed. “I can’t believe it took me this long to see it, I really can’t. We look alike, he doesn’t seem to want to talk when we- when we’re together. Of course he’s imagining you. Lord, this would almost make a good plot in a novel if only writing it wouldn’t be so bloody miserable for me.”

He drank a little more of the brandy whilst I floundered for something helpful to say. Anything I came up with seemed only to rub salt into his wounds. And Jeeves had admitted to me that he wasn’t in love with Wallace, so I could hardly tell him to go and try win Jeeves over, could I?

And I couldn’t do my usual piece of slapping a pal on the arm and telling him the person he’d fallen for wasn’t the only being on the face of the earth and that they would soon be back in the saddle, casting their net for someone more worthy. We both knew that Jeeves was a singularly wonderful individual, the likes of which would never be found again.

“How did you find out?” Wallace asked, after a period of pained silence.

“I’m afraid I was hiding in the tree you met Jeeves under the other night.” I admitted.

Wallace made a face. “Yes, it would be that farcical, wouldn’t it?”

I could hardly argue with that assessment. I supposed I had at least possessed the decency not to fall off the branch onto either of them. That truly would have added an element of slapstick to the rather tragic proceedings.

“I really am sorry.” I said, at a complete loss of anything else to say.

There came a light and very precise knock on the door. Only one paragon could knock on doors with such quiet authority.

I looked to Wallace, who was once again gazing at his brandy like a man who was about to be led to the gallows. Deciding that I would try and spare Wallace as much heartache as I could, I went to the door and opened it a crack.

“Jeeves, now isn’t a very good time. In fact one might say it is perhaps one of the worst times you might pick, so if you could toddle along for a little while.” I said to him, in a low voice. Actually, I’m afraid I addressed his bow tie, as I couldn’t bear to look at his face just yet. Or, quite possibly, ever again.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir. Mr Cheesewright has been spotted-”

“In the village, yes, I am aware, Jeeves-”

Jeeves cut me off rather sharply. “No, sir, he has been spotted inside the house. I am simply concerned for your safety.”

His voice took on a certain thingness at the end of his sentence. It sounded as if he were trying to convey rather more than just simple concern for my safety. I looked up at his unbearably handsome face and was rather surprised at what I saw there. Rather than the bland mask I expected to see, I was faced with Jeeves of the Potting Shed. All of his emotions were laid bare across his map. His worry, his contrition, and yes, his affection for me. He gave me a beseeching look and stepped closer, his voice low and confiding and, dare I say it, a bit on the thrilling side.

“Sir, I’m truly sorry for what I said earlier, I did not mean-”

“You may as well let him in, Wooster.” Wallace said tiredly, from somewhere near the drinks tray. He was topping up his brandy as if the socialists were about to introduce a tax hike on it.

Jeeves blinked, utterly surprised, sending me an alarmed glance.  I sighed and stepped back, throwing the door open wide, allowing Jeeves to see into the room.

“Mr Wallace- I-” Jeeves stepped passed me as I shut the door.

“You needn’t bother with that- your master knows.” Wallace said, gesturing to me with his brimming glass.

“Oh- I see.”

You have to remember that Jeeves wasn’t quite at his best at this particular point in time. Very little sleep, a great deal of fretting, and emotional upheaval tend to have that effect even on the most brilliant of men. And Jeeves, despite my ongoing inner turmoil re my feelings for him being dumped on the rubbish heap of life, was still nothing less than the most brilliant of men.

 So Jeeves’s response was rather feeble nothing like his usual smooth and believable acting abilities. In fact, I have rarely seen worse attempts, and that is including Bingo Little’s very brief foray into amateur dramatics at Oxford (the less said about Bingo and _Lady Windermere’s Fan_ , the better. The playwright, Wilde, would be rolling in his tomb and not, might I add, with any kind of amusement.)

Wallace saw through it immediately. The eyes narrowed, the spine stiffened. He looked rather like the German Shepherd who had taken such an exception to yours truly, sniffing out the truth of the matter astonishingly quickly.

“Oh Lord, of course.  Of course you told him everything, why should I have thought any different?” Wallace crossed his arms in what can only be described as a distinctly unchuffed manner and glared at Jeeves.

Jeeves looked at me, and I at him, and then we both looked at Wallace who uncrossed his arms to take another gulp of brandy. We were all stood around like rabbits caught in the headlights, although it wasn’t entirely clear who was driving the motorcar.

Wallace broke the silence by scoffing rather loudly.

“Christ, Wooster, are you even inverted or are you just thick?” He asked.

Jeeves bristled and I felt the need to lay a restraining hand on his arm.

“Look, Wallace, I understand you feel hard done by-”

“Hard done by? I’ve half a mind to press charges.” Wallace declared.

I blinked, completely stunned. Jeeves tensed, his lips thinning into a grim line.

“What?” I asked, hoping he wouldn’t confirm what I thought he was implying.

Wallace smiled a deeply unpleasant smile.

“If I go to the police and say that your man here has been pressing unwanted attentions on me, do you think they are going to believe my account, or that of a jumped up servant?”

Jeeves’s eyes were wide. I daresay mine were too. However I wasn’t about to stand there and let the blighter threaten Jeeves’s liberty in such a fashion. My very blood was beginning to boil. I had been prepared to lose Jeeves but not like this; not to an entirely unjust prison sentence.

I advanced on Wallace, hoping that I looked as enraged as I felt. Judging by the way Wallace eyed me the effect was impressive. I felt that I wasn’t far off producing steam from my ears.

“If you go to the police, Wallace, then I will go to court and give Jeeves a glowing character reference. As will half the Drones Club and I daresay several notable peers. I’ll hire the best lawyers in the land. I’ll even tell everyone what I heard whilst sitting up that tree and the next night, when I heard you begging for him to go to France with you.”

Wallace stared at me.

“You heard me-”

“Yes, I bloody well heard you. I even told Jeeves that he should leave with you if he thought it would make him happy! And to think, I briefly thought you worthy of him, you absolute worm.”

“Now, hang on-” Wallace began, but I was in no mood to let him finish.

“You claim to love him, and yet you would use his position in society against him simply out of spite?” I was incredulous.

“He used me!” Wallace entreated.

“And that’s a good enough reason to ruin the man is it?” I hissed, furiously. “You would destroy his life because he doesn’t wish to be trapped and miserable with someone who might choose to drop him in the soup the second things get a tad a dicey?”

The truth of the matter hit Wallace square between the eyes. He suddenly looked very contrite.

“I- No. No, Jeeves, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply-” He took a step towards Jeeves, who promptly took a step away from him.

Heretofore I would never have described Jeeves as a nervous individual, but he certainly seemed wary of Wallace’s intentions. Wallace himself seemed genuinely regretful over his behaviour, particularly when Jeeves backed away from him.

“I understand, sir.” Jeeves replied measuredly, something of the familiar stuffed frog expression returning to his haunted looking visage.  

Silence descended on the room again like a very uncomfortable woollen blanket.  For want of anything better to do I sat down on the chesterfield.

The mess we were all in only seemed to have gotten bigger and, well, _messier_. Jeeves was in love with me but didn’t wish to be. I was in love with Jeeves but couldn’t convince him of the fact and even if he was, he still didn’t wish to return my feelings. And Wallace, the now spurned lover, was playing sadly true to form with his vengeance swearing. Supposing he woke up the next day with a hell of a hangover and a strong desire to see my valet up on charges? I had pledged to do all I could for Jeeves and I was a man of my word, but even I could not stop the grinding gears of the British Legal System.

I was just about to offer around the cigarette case to Wallace and Jeeves, to make the fraught proceedings a little less tense, when the drawing room door swung open.

For half a second I thought that we were all going to be taken into custody for questioning about gross indecency, until I saw who stood in the doorway glaring directly at me, fire poker in hand.

Stilton Cheesewright, scarlet faced and furious. He even had the bally German Shepherd at his feet.

Oh. _Hell_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THREE YEARS AWAY AND I AM BACK.  
> Apologies all. My life has changed rather dramatically and for the better and whilst I had great affection for this story, I am afraid I associated it with times that were not quite so sunny.  
> AND THEN a dear friend discovered this fic and encouraged me to write more. Big thanks to him for pointing out the blackmail angle. This is for all of you, but also especially for Toby who is wonderful and very supportive. If you enjoy this you owe him a pint of something pleasant.  
> Expect the denouement soon!

**Author's Note:**

> An attempt to write in Bertie's voice, hopefully it isn't going too badly!More to come, feedback is very welcome.


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